peevish mama

I’ve brought the lap top to my bed and am lying on my stomach typing away.  Chewing gum, crossed ankles – très high school girl, except I have to glance out the window from time to time to make sure none of my children is out in the street.  Do you remember that terribly dangerous trick where you and a co-conspirator popped up on opposite sides of the road and pretended to pull a rope when a car was coming?  How horrible!  How rife with potential disaster and tragedy!  It makes me shudder to think of all the dangerous things I have done in my life, the rope trick being about a 4 out of 10 on the danger scale. Maybe a 3.  

Survival is such a crapshoot.  We should all be dead ten times over and yet we continue to squeak by.  For now, anyway.  

Not so Marsha, this line of thinking . . . a tad morbid. Perhaps time to change the channel.  In other news, Devil Baby is making huge strides in the potty-training department and if I can crumple her up and swoosh her into the “done” basket in the next couple weeks, I am going to write a book and then I’m going to go on Oprah.  I will become a potty guru and I will share my pithy tips with a benevolent smile.  I will debunk the myth being perpetrated by BIG CORPORATE DIAPER, who, through shady and unethical means get pediatricians to proselytize the message that kids aren’t ready to be toilet trained until three years old, and even then, you shouldn’t push them because . . . o.k., all together now . . . every child is different.

Well I’m here to say that there is a definite potty training window at age two and if you seize the day and believe that it can happen, that’s one whole year less of diapers choking our landfills and, more importantly, one whole year less of cleaning smeared smelly shit off your child’s ass.  If I’m wrong, that means my kids are defecation geniuses, pissing savants, which would be a bit of a waste and a pity,  so I’m sticking to my theory.  

Again, I’m way off the Marsha vibe. This stomach typing is killing my back anyway.  Must move to a chair.  Anyway, that’s my message, and Devil Baby is my ticket to paradise because I’m going to get rich when people figure out that I know the secret to potty training . . . it has worked for me . . . THRICE . And if you try my simple (and fun) techniques, it will work for you too.

What I haven’t figured out is how to keep my kids from engaging in risky behavior.  Even that seemingly innocuous camp trick where you bent over and took ten huge breaths then someone pretty much choked you against a wall until you passed out is SO FUCKING DANGEROUS!!!  Kids have DIED doing that!  We did it all the time at Black River Farm and Ranch, a girl’s horse camp in Michigan – we’d eat Doritos and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, clean the dust off our faces with cotton balls soaked in Sea Breeze, paint our nails with glitter polish and strangle each other for fun!  You felt like you were gone for hours, when really it was just a few seconds of eye rolling and twitching.  Oh. God.  I can’t believe I’m not dead.  Nothing like letting another twelve year old decide how long to deprive you of oxygen. 

My guys are little – the risky stuff hasn’t even begun yet.  But if it takes one to know one, I’m going to say that Supergirl is going to be a little speed freak, a devilish risk taker.  We put her on a kneeboard when she was three and her face when she climbed back into the boat took my breath away.  There were sparks flying out of her eyes.  Literally, she was electric – buzzing from the adrenalin, the noise, the water, thespeed.  This is the kind of kid who will drive very fast, who will try to outrun the cops, who will think herself invincible, who will run around downtown Detroit at night giggling and screaming with her little girlfriends in bermudas and madras miniskirts . . . oh wait, that was me.  

I need a secret, a ticket to her safety . . . some trick . . . a prayer, some voodoo, some mojo . . . a miracle . . . or maybe . . . just a little luck. 

I want to be able to do what Doctor Dash is doing in this photo.  He’s just relaxing, chilling out – two deep breaths away from a little meditation – five deep breaths away from falling asleep.  His ability to unplug and shutdown is enviable.

I can’t take a nap.  I can’t even fall asleep at night unless I read myself to sleep – the words need to be blurring together and the whole bending the page, putting the book on the night stand, turning off the light motion needs to be quick and seamless.   If it isn’t, I need to read a few more pages and try it again.  I know, it sounds a little crazy. 

In yoga the first time I heard about the monkey mind, I had a huge “aha” moment.  The monkey mind.  I recognized myself completely.  It’s when you can’t quiet the chatter and your mind jumps from thought to thought, like monkeys from branch to branch – wild and unruly, wily and rude.  The minute I lie back in savasna after yoga practice, my mind starts to wander . . . what are the kids doing?  what do I feel like eating when I get out of here?  how long has the dirty laundry been moldering in the chute? what’s up with the medium size ants invading our house this spring?  can my yoga teacher tell my mind is racing?  why does Posh Spice have such a skeletal scowl on her face all the time?  Is it because she’s starving?  What’s with Tom and Katie taking them under their wing?  Are they trying to convert them to Scientology?  What’s up with those freaky Scientologists?  FUCK!!!!  WHAT AM I DOING????  

Savasna – corpse pose.  It’s an opportunity for total and complete relaxation and surrender and although I need this sooooo badly, I’m a total and complete spaz.  I’m the furthest thing from a corpse.  Quite the contrary, I’m like a girl on ecstasy at a rave, but the rave is in my head, and it’s a rave for monkeys and I cannot, for the life of me, just notice them and then let them go and get back to the sensation of the sound of my breath, the blood pulsing through my veins, my muscles melting into the floor.  No, I bounce over to monkeys, chewing gum really hard with a huge grin on my face, my feet doing complicated little made-up hip hop moves, and join in their reindeer games. But the monkeys are very naughty and distracting, and ultimately, they’re monkeys, so let’s face it, they’re not that interesting.  So then I feel bad and I try to get back to savasna, and then one more monkey stretches his hairy hand toward me, and I grab it . . . and savasna is suddenly over.

And it’s not only that I want to be able to meditate or fall asleep.  I want to be able to BE IN THE MOMENT.  This chaotic, frenetic, exhausting time with my young family is so fleeting, that I’m afraid I’m going to miss it.  It’s like sand slipping through my fingers, but I’m so tired and frayed that I just open my fingers wider, letting it go go go . . . 

Little kids keep you very busy - busy with your hands: getting milk, wiping noses and bottoms, checking backpacks, making lunches, reading books, changing diapers, picking up toys, tying shoes, opening yogurts, washing blueberries, hoisting into swings, catching at the bottom of slides. Meaningful labor, but labor nevertheless.  The problem is that while your body is in motion, most of the time your mind is, well, how to put it delicately, not necessarily working to full capacity.  You don’t have the time or the quiet to concentrate on anything.  My kids are as bright and interesting as the next, but they’re children and so even though my mouth may be explaining the order of the seasons for the twelfth time, my mind is elsewhere (sometimes thinking those absurd thoughts I discussed in my first entry).  And I don’t want to be elsewhere.  I want to be here, with them, completely present.  Because soon enough, my three guys will be elsewhere and I’ll be longing for the days when all they wanted was ME, when all they needed to be happy was my attention and affection.  

Mother guilt – could there be a bigger cliché?

It’s paradoxical – the fact that the key to plugging in and being present is to unplug, stop thinking, let it all wash over you.  I should become a Buddhist.  That’s really what I’m talking about here.  Or I could have a stroke.  I read about this neuroscientist from Harvard in the NY Times who had a stroke and found nirvana – her left brain was damaged to such a degree that she lost her powers of analysis, speech and judgement, leaving her open to this sensation that everything was unified and blissful and part of a shimmering connected whole.  Oh my God.  That’s great.  For her.  

You know, I’ve always called my children monkeys, as in “Hop in monkeys,” “Into your pj’s monkeys,” etc.  I considered switching to squirrels once when Saint James became obsessed with them, but it never stuck.  Little kids are just simian – from birth, with their little clutching fingers and later – well, they don’t call them monkey bars for nothing.  

So maybe if the monkeys that are distracting me and taking up all my time and making me play and dance and rub my temples are MY monkeys, then it will all shake out in the end.  In the mean time, I’m going to read a book to Supergirl and I’m going to try to pay attention (reading aloud, like driving, can be accomplished using a mere sliver of your faculties) and I’m going to try not to think about the monkey we saw at the zoo who looked exactly like Kris Kristofferson.                                                                                                     Artist Heather Gorham

So why blog?  My reasons are manifold and since I haven’t really planned out this first entry (I was more just sort of ferreting out a cool background), I’m just going to say that it has a little something to do with having too many words in my head flapping around like a bunch of nasty pigeons.

Sometimes all these words get strung together into thoughts  which are incredibly convoluted and, frankly, out there.  By way of example, I have actually imagined spawning a tiny version of myself who, after landing deftly on the countertop, arm of the couch or where ever I happen to be, scrambles up my sleeve, does a neat pike dive into my ear and hangs out in the bubbling hot tub that is my mind, rather enjoying the churning and the noise, but completely oblivious to the outside world.  

I have also composed entire paragraphs in my head depicting my travels in India, a travelogue redolent with the scents of turmeric and clove, frangipani, tuberose and water hyacinth . . . are you feeling me?  There’s more: dusty cows, swirling saris, warm sheets of monsoon rain, piles of gold and saffron in the markets, secret maps etched on the hennaed hands of brides.  I have never been to India, and, more importantly, do not have a job that would require me to document my impressions of India should I ever go there.  

Better to get all these words out, no?

This whole being in my head thing sounds a bit escapist, I’ll admit, and so this would be a good time to introduce the three short people who live in my house.  Wait.  One step back.  There is also one tall one, taller than me, actually, and I’ll call him Doctor Dash.  He vetoed Doctor Love because, he, unlike me, is not so sure that no one will ever read this blog.  In fact, Doctor Dash has enumerated a whole honkin’ list of things I’m not allowed to write about, but we’ll just see about that.  

I WILL NOT BE CENSORED!

Actually, I will.  I will censor myself to protect the innocent because this is just a lark, a little free therapy, and I intend to avoid any unnecessary mortification of loved ones (myself excluded).

Doctor Dash is very smart, which is very sexy – which is not to say that he wouldn’t be sexy were he not smart – I just wouldn’t be married to him.  He’s also funny, to me anyway.  We met our senior year in college when we were young and fun and about 15 pounds heavier each.  We met at the age when we both lived in flannel shirts and 501’s and drank copious amounts of beer and smoked copious amounts of woops!  We basically got to grow up together.  He wrapped me up in music, I wrapped him up in books and I’m so thankful I didn’t play too hard to get for too long.  (Yes, I was peevish back then too).  He gets me and really, what else could I ask for?

Our oldest lad is a heavenly seven and I will call him Saint James.  He loves all creatures, great and small, and wants to be a naturalist when he grows up.  He’s got the circadian rhythms of a teen.  He’s a killer reader and a pretty great soccer player too.  He’s got a big pouf of dirty blond hair, my eyes but in sparkly blue, an infectious cackle, a gentle soul, and, currently, a horrible case of hay fever.  

Our middle child is fabulously five and I will call her Supergirl.  She’s fearless and sporty and has the biggest green-brown eyes you’ve ever seen.  She craves speed, physical peril, and candy.  She rides her bike like the wind, is never cold and has the world’s dirtiest feet at the end of a good day outside.  She, I suspect, will also have many words in her head someday because she loves to chat and sometimes, honestly, you feel like you are talking to a teenager (albeit, a relatively agreeable one).  She’s determined and fierce and does a mean one-handed cartwheel.

Our youngest, God help us, our youngest is almost two and I can’t decide whether I will call her The Boss or Devil Baby.  Yes, that’s right.  I love her, I’ll keep her, but SHE’S FUCKING KILLING ME.  There, I said it.  I’m sick of all the pitying looks I get at Supergirl’s preschool as I wrestle 28 pounds of bucking fat and muscle to the car every day.  Devil Baby likes to stay and push the toy shopping cart around.  If you fuck with her plans, there is hell to pay.  She has porcelain skin, blue eyes, doe colored hair, and the steely innards of a mob boss.  She can be hilarious and she can make you want to stick your head in the oven.  She likes Elmo and tearing down the street on her big wheel.  She does not cooperate.  She does not compromise.  She does not listen.  She is killing me.  But I love her.  

I love them all.  And so I will write, a bit, to make myself a little more sane, a little more patient, a little less peevish.

Ah, yes, and why peevishmama?  Well, I think I’ve pretty much covered that.  Suffice it to say that I like the word and it captures, perfectly, how I feel 94% of the time.  And by the way, it’s not just my husband and kids making me peevish.  No, sometimes it’s everything and everyone else and they, Doctor Dash, Saint James, Supergirl and Devil Baby are the only, and the perfect, antidote.